The Road Ahead
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: After a serious illness, Sherlock and John face a slow road to recovery together. AU; Otherwise AU; crime AU; Johnlock; OCs
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is an _Otherwise_ AU story. If you haven't read _If It Were Otherwise_, this will make very little sense. _Otherwise_ is posted on ffn and can be found on my profile page (it's also 116 chapters long, so just be warned). Since this is an AU, things are slightly different, and there are also original characters incorporated into the story line. If you don't like either of those things, you might not enjoy this story. To those of you who _do_ like those things, I hope this is a good read! (Also note: there will be more chapters, not just this one. But not 116 of them.)

* * *

The silence of his flat was like a balm after nearly a week in the hospital. St. Mary's had been worse, but even at Princess Grace, where Sherlock had insisted on being moved once he'd had the strength to argue, there had been no real respite from the incessant noise. The machinery tracking his vitals had kept him relentless company, and he'd rarely been without the squeak of rubber soles in the corridor outside his private room or the murmured sounds of voices passing by.

Even John bustling around, helping him out of his coat and shoes, giving inane instructions about rest and diet and hydration couldn't shatter the precious peace. John's voice was familiar and welcome. Part of Sherlock's life and home. A constant he'd grown used to and couldn't imagine doing without.

"That sounds fine," he replied to his partner's enquiry about whether he'd like to lie down on the sofa. It sounded more than fine, really – _perfect_ would have been a good adjective. After six days of staring at bland walls and bland curtains, confined to a narrow and uncomfortable bed, it was a relief to settle onto the plush sofa cushions, to be surrounded by colour and life designed on his terms.

"I'll make some tea and some soup," John said, draping a blanket lightly over Sherlock's legs, tucking it carefully around hips that felt too bony and narrow even after such a short time. Sherlock was aware that his clothing was ill-fitting now, but John had said nothing, so presumably regaining the weight wouldn't be an issue. It surprised him vaguely that he cared, but he had no desire for John to lose interest in him physically.

"Anything else you want?" his partner asked.

"Whiskey. An entire bottle," Sherlock replied, slouching down slightly.

"Not until you're off the antibiotics."

"Alcohol isn't contraindicated with this type."

"Doesn't matter," John said firmly. "You're sick. No alcohol. Chocolate HobNobs instead. Sound all right?"

Sherlock found he could muster a genuine smile in response. Tea and biscuits did sound appealing, and he could tolerate soup enough to satisfy John's need to see him eat.

He shuffled further under the blanket, unhappy with the chill that was creeping under his skin. John returned a few minutes later, tea and HobNobs at the ready, the smell of soup wafting gently in from the kitchen. He picked up Sherlock's phone when it buzzed, ignoring the glare shot his way.

"Gabe says welcome home and wants to come up later to see you."

"That's fine," Sherlock said.

"We'll see how you're feeling," John replied, expression warning against arguing, but something about it sparked a rebellious petulance in Sherlock.

"I'm forty for god's sake, not four."

"Says the man who ignored the fact that he was sick for so long he collapsed from it. I don't care how old you are, Sherlock, you're sick. You need to rest, not to work. I know you well enough that you'll pester Gabe to get you caught up to speed."

"I won't," Sherlock sighed.

"I'll believe that when I see it," John said, pocketing Sherlock's phone and disappearing into the kitchen again. He returned with chicken soup that smelled suspiciously of coming from a tin. Sherlock took it grudgingly, stirring it once or twice before the motion threatened to become tiring.

"You're the doctor," he pointed out, disliking the irritable note the slipped into his voice. "If you hadn't gone away, you'd have noticed."

"You survived thirty-two years before having me here to diagnose any ailments," John replied, dropping a light kiss into Sherlock's curls. "Like you said, you're forty. You don't need me for common sense."

With a sigh, Sherlock set the soup aside. John picked it up immediately, nudging enough room on the sofa to sit on the edge.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need the calories. Here. At least half."

"I'm not a _child_, John."

"No, you're a man recovering from a serious illness, and I _am_ a doctor. I know you trust me, Sherlock. Trust me in this."

With a sigh, Sherlock conceded and let himself be fed as if he had no control over his body. He would never have admitted to John that it was something of a relief – he felt heavy, his muscles weighted and sluggish. It was simpler to let someone else do it, and when most of the soup, the tea, and the biscuits were gone, John left him to drift to sleep in merciful silence for the first time in a week.

* * *

There was a disorienting sense of not knowing where or when he was. Sherlock lay still, letting information creep in and process itself rather than jumping to panicked conclusion. Smells, sensations, noises – all of them were familiar.

Home.

His flat, and John's.

He was in the living room, on the sofa, where John had left him to sleep. It was much later now, the light having shifted, nearly vanished into dusk. Gabriel wouldn't come today; John wouldn't allow it at this hour.

Sherlock found he didn't mind. There was an odd dual sensation of missing his friend's presence and not caring about the work. He'd see Gabriel tomorrow, maybe. The younger man had come to the hospital every day to visit, under strict instructions from John not to discuss business. Not that they would anyway – neither of them was so negligent.

If he tried, he could remember fingers on his face, Gabriel's insistent voice separated by some great distance. The smell and feel of his office, the blur of Tina's black heels as they passed him by. Such a strange vantage point, her shoes at eye level. Such a strange memory, so clear and undiluted amidst the mix of jumbled sounds and images that still made no sense.

It seemed like John had been there, too, but he'd been away with Tricia and Jamie, some blasted army reunion Sherlock hadn't had any desire to attend. He'd had a cough when John had left, thought nothing of it. A spring cold, nothing more than a mild and passing annoyance.

He remembered Gabriel's voice, words spoken to Tina: "He's burning up." He'd felt like he'd been on fire, Gabriel's fingers ice against his face, where they'd brushed his throat and chest to unbutton his shirt enough to let him breathe better. He remembered speaking, but Gabriel hadn't answered. It had probably emerged as nothing more than moans. He must have been barely conscious, but it hadn't felt that way, aware of light and sound but unable to make sense of them.

John had come later, his trip cut short. Sherlock had no memory of that, only of cold pressed against him – ice to help bring down the fever.

Pneumonia. Such a stupid thing. He'd never had it even as a child. It made him feel weak – it _had_ made him weak. Helpless. Exhausted.

"Oh you're awake." John's voice was quiet in the near darkness, close and warm. He crouched down in front of the sofa, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sherlock's forehead – and feeling for any signs of returning fever, Sherlock was certain.

"Do you think I might have a bath?" Sherlock asked. John smiled, lips pressing against a temple briefly.

"That could be arranged," he agreed. "Let's get you into the bedroom and I'll run it."

Sherlock refused the offered assistance, pushing himself slowly to his feet. John kept pace with him but didn't offer any more help, for which Sherlock was grateful. A week of being pandered to by nurses and doctors had left him longing to do something – _anything_ – on his own. He eased himself onto their bed as John disappeared into the bathroom, and dozed to the sounds of water spilling into the tub.

* * *

John was already stripped down to his jeans and bare feet. He helped Sherlock from his clothing, lending a supportive hand as the younger man climbed carefully into the large bathtub. A moment later, John's jeans and pants were puddled on the floor and he was slipping in gingerly, testing the water against his skin.

"Oh good," Sherlock said, tilting his head back against the edge, eyes closed, letting the warmth from the water permeate tired and aching joints. "I thought I'd be on my own."

A derisive snort from John made him smile as a hand tangled into his hair.

"Here, dunk under." Sherlock obeyed, the light and sounds distorting for a moment before he slid back up, dark curls matted to his skin. John washed his hair slowly, the pressure of fingertips and the faint scratch of fingernails against his skull making Sherlock hum appreciatively. Despite having just slept, he felt like he could again, but kept himself awake. Bathing with John had a relaxing quality he'd never found in anything else. He focussed on the slow, soothing strokes of the flannel against his skin, shifting when John required him to, settling back with a sigh, the clean feeling making his fingers and toes tingle. It had been days since he'd felt this much like himself.

"I'm going to cover your face," John warned before a flannel was draped over him, bringing a sudden darkness and heat. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, let John repeat the procedure twice more before it was contrasted by the cool touch of foam.

The smooth scrape of the razor over his cheek and jaw made him think of the now-empty cell in the basement of his office building, of the number of times he'd done exactly this same routine. Washing hair, washing skin, shaving. It had been over three years now, and nothing remained of it – neither the structure nor the man who had prowled its small confines.

John had unknowingly mimicked the sequence but the comparison was meaningless. Sherlock felt nothing but content, a lulling safety that he allowed himself to feel solely in John's presence, and only when they were at home alone. The worst of the threats against either of them had been eliminated, but it seemed now his own body could be counted as a potential enemy, turning against him, breaking down. He'd have to pay more attention.

"Done," John murmured, wiping away the last traces of foam with careful strokes.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely, opening his eyes to see the smile crossing his partner's lips.

"Want to get out?" John asked.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes again, shaking his head. Allowing himself to shift and relax against John's body when the doctor slipped between him and the edge of the tub. "Not just yet."

* * *

The sensation of waking up in his own bed was so welcome that Sherlock gave himself a few minutes just to appreciate it. The sound of John's slow, steady breathing. Clean sheets that didn't scratch or crinkle against his skin. Enough space to lie comfortably. The warmth of the duvet and his partner's body next to his.

He roused himself reluctantly, not wanting to disturb John by coughing, and headed to the kitchen to clear his lungs and make a much needed cup of coffee. The thought of wrapping himself in his dressing gown and sitting on the balcony with a cigarette was appealing, but smoking was strictly forbidden.

John had bought him nicotine patches, which were nowhere near as good, but had some sort of palliative effect. It was the idea of starting his day with coffee and a cigarette that he really craved; with a sigh, Sherlock conceded he probably shouldn't go outside in the early morning cold anyway.

Freshly ground and brewed coffee was a more than adequate substitute. Sherlock settled on the sofa again, sipping the steaming drink, and felt suddenly at a loss. In the early mornings with John still sleeping, he would normally catch up on work. His doctors – including John – had been very clear that he was on an imposed break. Rest and recovery. Contravening that would make John angry, and Sherlock had neither the desire nor the energy for a row.

Seven days away from his office had left him unaware of recent developments anyway. No matter where he started, he'd be behind until Gabriel caught him up – another thing that wasn't going to happen without John's permission.

He selected a book from one of the bookcases and sat down to read, but his attention waned after a handful of pages, leaving him rereading passages several times before realizing they hadn't sunk in. Sherlock closed the book with a resigned sigh when he heard the sounds of John getting up. His partner padded barefoot into the living room to perch on the arm of the sofa, tangling a hand in Sherlock's sleep-dishevelled hair.

"You're up early," John said, to which Sherlock hummed a non-committal reply. "Want some breakfast?"

Sherlock agreed – he was unlikely to have a choice in the matter, and anything John made was guaranteed to be better than the hospital food. He was happy that his partner kept it simple with some toast and fruit.

"What will you do today?" Sherlock asked as John settled next to him with a steaming bowl of oatmeal.

"I've got nothing in mind," John replied. "I'm sure there are things that need to be done around here. Laundry, for a start."

"Don't you have patients?" Sherlock asked, mildly surprised.

"No, you daft bugger," John said with a fond smile. "I've got a sick boyfriend to take care of."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, both at the term and at the assessment.

"Nothing's going to happen to me here, John," he sighed. "There must be people in need of your services."

"Yes," John replied. "You."

"I think I can manage sleeping without your supervision. Go into your office for a few hours if you'd like."

"After a week living in a hospital, I honestly don't mind," John said.

"You'll be bored."

"No, love, I'm not you. I can always find something to do. And you'll probably need someone here to keep you from climbing the walls."

* * *

_Climbing the walls_. It was an odd phrase, and Sherlock had found himself studying said walls, but with lethargy instead of impatience. He'd expected to become bored, as John had predicted. For impatience to creep back in as a dull itch beneath his skin, for his mind to turn in on itself seeking distraction until he had to do _something_ to alleviate the inactivity.

Instead he'd slept, watched some telly, and slept again. Gabriel had come up before work to say hello – polished shoes, pressed suit, perfectly matched tie, all business and directed purpose. It had occurred to Sherlock to feel envious, but he hadn't been able to muster the response.

Cheryl had come later in the morning for a cup of tea. Sherlock had found himself not evaluating anything about her beyond her clothing, the same way he had with Gabriel. That _was_ annoying; he should be seeing beyond the surface, registering and analyzing all the little hints she was giving away about herself without intending to.

_I'm losing my mind_, he thought when she'd gone, a flash of panic flaring beneath the fatigue. Not to insanity but atrophy. Surely a week couldn't do that much damage?

John would probably point out it was nothing but a symptom of the illness and that the foggy, detached feeling would fade as he recovered. That was rational and logical, so Sherlock chose to believe it, refusing to let the panic take root any deeper. This was not unusual or unexpected, and he _was_ a genius.

Sleep seemed the ideal answer. Sherlock burrowed under the blanket and closed his eyes.

* * *

"How about some of the Doctor?" John asked, holding up a DVD case and flashing a smile across the room.

"I've had enough doctors," Sherlock replied, draping an arm over his eyes.

"Too bad," John said cheerily, accompanied by the faint hum of the television coming to life. "I'm in the mood for it, and I know you always are. Budge up – having pneumonia doesn't give you twenty-four-seven control of the sofa."

"It's _my_ sofa," Sherlock murmured.

"And what's yours is mine," John replied, nudging in behind Sherlock and lying on his side. Sherlock shuffled down to let John rest his head on the arm of the couch; the angle of the television screen was odd this way, but he didn't mind. He'd seen each episode enough times – a new vantage point was bound to make him catch something he'd previously missed.

"None of your cheek," he said, pretending to ignore the faint chuckle and the kiss pressed against his neck.

"Now I know you're feeling better. Talking back."

"If I'm not mistaken, it was _you_ talking back," Sherlock replied, twisting slightly in his partner's light embrace, catching John's grin and the glint in his eyes.

"Not possible. I'm a trained military officer. We don't ever talk back." Sherlock made a cynical sound; John tugged lightly on his curls. "Quiet, it's starting."

Sherlock shifted again, getting comfortable against his partner's familiar body, and let his mind switch off, following the familiar plot without much more effort than normal. John had chosen one of his favourites, but his attention span waned more quickly than he was expecting, the colours blurring faintly in front of him. He closed his eyes, ignoring the dialogue and focussing on John's presence, on the patches of warmth against his skin underneath the cotton pyjamas were John was touching him, the small cool places where some tiny space separated them.

It was much more pleasant than the show; Sherlock ignored the protest when he turned the television off, pushing a shoulder into John's chest so he could turn just enough to see his partner.

"I want to go home."

A puzzled look creased John's features, drawing twin lines up from his nose.

"Sherlock, we are home." Voice gentle, as if explaining something to a child, but edged with wariness, uncertain what the statement meant.

"I mean Buckinghamshire home," Sherlock replied.

A moment's hesitation then John nodded, smoothing a hand up and down Sherlock's upper arm.

"All right, but why?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, mildly surprised to find that he genuinely didn't know, that the desire had no rational basis he could determine.

"Okay, well let me call your mum, and I'm sure she'd be happy to have us come."

"Let's just go."

"Now? Sherlock, we can't show up unannounced–"

"It's my home," Sherlock said, an unwanted note of impatience dipping into his voice.

"Yes and we'll give your parents some warning. We'll go first thing in the morning. I'll drive. No sense dragging Gerald out of the city for an indefinite amount of time."

Sherlock scowled, keeping to himself the observation that it was Gerald's job to drive him wherever he willed.

"All right," John said with a sigh. "I'll make some arrangements with Gabe, too – he'll have to know you're away, and he _is_ my boss after all."

"And I'm his. Tell me if he gives you any trouble."

"Yeah, he's sure to do that," John replied, rolling his eyes. "He's always such a thorn in your side, isn't he?"

"You mock," Sherlock said. "You've no idea."

"Well you're the one who found, hired, and trained him, so it's on you if he's a pain in the ass." John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's cheek, the motion not quite hiding the smile on his lips. "Now are you going to let me up to ring your mum, or not?"

* * *

Sherlock dozed as they left London and its suburbs, waking to the greens and golds of rolling hills and villages dotting the landscape. John had left the motorway, most likely as soon as they were clear of the city's fringes, opting for the smaller roads instead.

Sherlock didn't complain, but watched the scenery slide by through the windscreen and passenger window. It was always odd sitting in the front of the car. He was more likely to drive than John was, but still rarely resorted to it.

It had a certain freedom he wasn't expecting. Just the two of them, no need to relay the decisions to a third party, no need to be conscious of someone else's presence.

As if reading his mind, John rested a hand on Sherlock's knee, thumb turning small circles. There was nothing sexual about the gesture, only comforting and loving, a tiny, warm connection that he hadn't realized he'd been missing. John had touched him a lot in the hospital and in the two days they'd been at home, but most of that had been functional, necessary. Helping him with things he was too tired or stiff or sore to do for himself.

Despite the faint ache in his muscles, Sherlock extended an arm, cupping a hand on the back of John's neck, massaging lightly with his fingers. A flicker of a smile crossed John's lips, crinkling around his eyes.

"We should do this more often," John commented, casting a quick glance at Sherlock.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed non-committally, leaning his head against the headrest and closing his eyes again, focussing on the purr of the motor and the feel of John's skin against his own.

Sibyl and William were waiting for them when John pulled the car to a stop in front of the residential entrance. Sherlock felt a dull thrum of surprise upon seeing his father at home during the day. Age hadn't seemed to slow William's steady pace, and if he'd ever considered retirement, he'd opted against it. There were always board meetings, executive committees, days spent planning the fates of others.

Something Sherlock understood intimately.

"It's good to see you," his mother said, cupping his face before pressing a kiss against his forehead. "You look much better."

"I _feel_ much better," Sherlock replied. Not one hundred percent – nowhere near – but it was a marked improvement from how he'd felt in the hospital when full awareness had first returned.

His father's sudden hug startled him – both the action and its ferocity. Sherlock managed to return it, shocked by the gesture and the fact that it was done in public. As public as their front drive was anyway; it didn't seem like a busy National Trust day for the house, and he hadn't noted an audience.

"You gave us quite the scare, my boy," William said, pulling away to grasp Sherlock lightly – but firmly – by the shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock replied automatically, feeling reduced to childhood yet oddly not chastised. The sudden emotion left him feeling bewildered; even in the hospital, William had been calm and certain, almost stoic. Practical to the core. Concerned, of course, but never panicked or afraid.

"Let's get you inside," Sibyl suggested. "No sense in you catching a chill."

Sherlock glanced at John, who smiled slightly, giving a brief nod.

"I've got the bags," his partner assured him, and was only a few steps behind them as they entered the house. There seemed to be no staff on duty – Sherlock knew that was unlikely, but they were left in peace to navigate their way to the small suite that they'd used since their first visit.

John vanished into the bedroom to drop the bags, reappearing a moment later.

"Would you like anything?" Sibyl asked.

"Tea," John replied gratefully. "And some biscuits, if you've got them."

"Of course we have," Sibyl replied with a smile. "Anything you'd like. You needn't worry about it; if we haven't got it, it can be obtained. You look like you need to rest." The last was to Sherlock, who nodded mechanically; the trip hadn't been eventful, but had left him feeling somewhat drained, a familiar ache settling into his muscles.

"Let us know when you're ready for company," his mother said, bending to kiss him again.

"We will," Sherlock promised. He and John were left in silence, the door to the suite clicking shut quietly behind his father. John tucked a blanket around him, and Sherlock was asleep before the promised tea had a chance to arrive.

* * *

"Would you like to go out?"

"Dinner and a show perhaps?" Sherlock asked, cracking one eye open to catch John's smile.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a short walk. The weather's nice and the fresh air would do you some good."

"How can I argue with my doctor?" Sherlock murmured.

"Ha," John muttered, not quite under his breath. "You'll need to change."

John had done the majority of the packing for him and it seemed the clothing Sherlock was used to wearing – suits, silk shirts – had been prohibited. Admittedly, Sherlock had purchased the more casual clothing for himself, but the jeans and the layers topped by a jumper left him feeling unlike himself. Not uncomfortable, but like he was playing the role of tourist in his own home.

Or the role of a sick man recovering from an illness.

John wrapped a scarf around Sherlock's neck, tugging it gently to tighten it, smoothing away some of the creases. Sherlock scowled, pretending to be annoyed, knowing full well John would see through it.

The sky was overcast, but the clouds were high and thin, the hidden sun nearly visible behind them. It hadn't rained in a few days and the grass was dry but green as they ambled across it, stepping over the short stone wall that separated the lawn from the private flower gardens. There was a higher barrier preventing the National Trust tourists from encroaching on their space, and Sherlock had never been more grateful for that than he was now.

They walked in silence until Sherlock began to feel tired. John sat beside him on the bench, their arms pressed lightly together, sharing warmth. Sherlock hated how easily he tired, how weak he was.

"All right?" John asked. Sherlock sighed and pursed his lips but nodded. John hooked an arm through his at the elbow, took his hand.

"How do you feel about retirement?" Sherlock asked, not looking down at his partner, gaze settling instead on brown and bare branches twined with green ivy vines.

"In general or for me specifically?"

"Perhaps I should," Sherlock mused.

"You're sick, not old," John replied.

"I _feel_ old," Sherlock muttered.

"I know you do. You're recovering from a serious illness, Sherlock. It's not unexpected."

"A serious illness I've never had before. If I can catch something now, what does that mean from now on?"

"I think it means that you've got to pay better attention to your health," John said. "You eat well and exercise, but you ignore anything that feels like discomfort or fatigue. You push yourself hard, Sherlock."

"I've _trained_ myself to go without much sleep," Sherlock corrected. "And haven't ever needed much anyway."

"I know," John said. "But right now you do. It's normal, and certainly doesn't make you weak or old. Learn to pay a bit more attention to yourself. You're fantastic at reading other people – maybe just not so good at doing it to _you_."

Sherlock gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head when John gave him a quizzical look.

"Gabriel said something similar regarding my ability to deceive myself about being interested in you."

"Well he was right," John said, raising his eyebrows.

"Will you make me give up smoking?" Sherlock murmured.

"I'm not making you do anything," John replied. "You _should_, because no amount of nicotine is good for you, but you don't smoke so much I think it will actually hurt you."

"I'm gasping for a cigarette."

"I know you are. And you would be gasping if you smoked right now."

"John, I can't do anything," Sherlock said, tipping his head back, closing his eyes. "No smoking, no sex, no work. Even if I were allowed to work, I can't bring myself to find it interesting. Perhaps retirement _would _be a good option. What use am I otherwise?"

John sighed quietly, squeezing Sherlock's hand, a small, momentary increase in warmth.

"Do you want my opinion?"

"As a doctor or as my partner?"

"Both."

"Yes."

"You were seriously ill and are still recovering. You still tire easily and your mind isn't working as quickly as you're used to, but because you're tired, you don't really care. You're mistaking a mild depression for actual loss of interest in what you love."

"Something else," Sherlock murmured, letting his eyes flutter open.

"No, it's situational and completely normal. I'm not worried about it."

"Your lack of concern does you credit," Sherlock muttered, scowling slightly.

"Even if it does make you grumpy and sulky," John replied.

"I don't sulk," Sherlock said, ignoring the smile that stretched over John's lips.

"Not ever," his partner agreed with what Sherlock privately considered far too much levity to be believed.

"If I can't think, then I can't do. The point of my work– of my _life_, John, is to stay several steps ahead of everyone. I can't do that, and risk jeopardizing my entire organization and those who work for me."

"You can't right now," John corrected. "That's why Gabe is in charge and you're here recovering. Sherlock, I know you. You think retirement is appealing now because you're tired. Give it a week and you'll be itching for a challenge, gasping to throw yourself back into it. Retirement, love? Not right now."

"I should stop," Sherlock murmured. "What I do is wrong." A faint tension in John's muscles, tightening the tendons on the back of his hand beneath Sherlock's thumb. "Why are you surprised? I've never held any illusions that isn't. I break the law, John. My work contravenes all societal norms. I take what isn't mine. And I enjoy it. Morally bankrupt." He closed his eyes, tipping his head back again.

"I'm not a good man."

A pause, a silence that stretched between them, and Sherlock was startled to find he wanted denial from John, some hollow reassurance that meant nothing – objectively it would be untrue. A statement of fact, and he had no guilt about the reality, no sudden desire to change his ways or repent.

And still he wanted John to contradict him.

"You've never been anything but good to me."

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking down. John's gaze was firm when it met his, straightforward, without deception or apology.

"You got me out of that bedsit, made me work again. Forced me back into _doing_ something. Paid me enough – more than enough – to feel comfortable. Took care of my friends. Gave me someone to fall in love with. And have given me eight good years. You've never taken anything I wouldn't have given you."

"We've fought."

"We have. Sometimes that was your fault. Sometimes mine. Sometimes both, or neither. I don't care what you do for your work. I know you care about it – and that you enjoy it. I know if you stopped now, you'd go mad with inactivity."

"I'll have to retire sometime."

"Maybe," John agreed, fingers running through Sherlock's hair. "And when you do, Gabe'll take over, or whoever comes after him. But whenever that is, Sherlock, it's not going to be for a long time yet."


	2. Chapter 2

In retrospect, the walk had been a bad idea; Sherlock had been noticeably more tired during dinner and the persistent cough had grown stronger in the evening, wracking his thinner frame to the point where it looked painful.

John increased the analgesic dose as much as he felt comfortable, and it took the edge off, but even propped up on three pillows, the incessant coughing was keeping his partner awake, robbing him of the sleep he so desperately needed.

"Here," John said, setting his medical bag on the bed while Sherlock winced in the dim light from the lamp on the bedside table. "I'm going to give you a sedative."

It was a measure of Sherlock's misery that he let John jab his arm without so much as a comment, let alone a protest. John made quick work of the injection; Sherlock watched him wearily, dark circles smudged under his eyes.

"That'll help," John murmured, putting the bag away and shutting the light off again. Lying on his side let him rub a hand over Sherlock's chest, feeling the faint shudder of muscles against his fingers as his partner's lungs tried to clear themselves. The light massage was more soothing than anything, and combined with the sedative and the decongestants, John felt Sherlock begin to relax slowly, slipping gently toward sleep.

He allowed himself a moment of relief, hand pausing in its slow, rhythmic motions. The silence of the countryside was powerful – no hum of traffic, no distant buzz of airplanes, no fading wail of sirens. John could easily have believed they were the only two people in the house, and the peace might have been perfect if not for the laboured wheeze in Sherlock's breathing.

_Should've known better,_ John berated himself. It had seemed like a good idea. In a way, it still did. Sherlock _had_ been better for getting out – at least while they were out – and had been able to air some of his frustrations.

They weren't surprising. He was glad Sherlock had spoken them out loud, and he wasn't particularly worried. The lethargy would fade with the illness – John's main concern now is that the latter might be coming back.

The back of his fingers pressed against Sherlock's face didn't register a fever, but he was uneasy with the rattle in his partner's chest. He'd been doing relatively well at home, but this reminded John too much of how he'd sounded in the hospital.

He closed his eyes but sleep refused to come, focused as he was on Sherlock's raspy breathing. The sound began to wear on him, and John fought against fidgeting, not wanting to disturb his partner, but the restlessness refused to abate. With a defeated sigh, he slipped from the bed and out of the room, leaving the door open. He settled on the sofa, pulling a blanket over his legs, checking the time on his phone. A little after eleven – when he'd normally be going to bed. Amazing how late it felt, and how tired it made him.

John clicked his phone off and snuggled down determinedly. He wouldn't be of any use to his partner if he was exhausted himself, and after living in the hospital for nearly a week, he needed the sleep almost as much as Sherlock did.

* * *

It was almost two in the morning when the sound of coughing jarred John awake; he was up and stumbling toward the bedroom before he was fully conscious, registering his name spoken in a faint, breathless voice.

It was bad enough to have woken Sherlock from the sedative-induced sleep, and John could see the silhouette of his partner curled forward, shoulders shaking. He switched on the light, snagging a box of tissues as he scrambled onto the bed. Sherlock took the one pressed into his hands, spit, and tossed it into the bin without looking.

John fetched his stethoscope, listening as Sherlock coughed, not liking the depth of the rattle in his lungs. It meant the congestion was clearing up, but the faint whimper at the end of each spasm was indicative of how much pain it was causing.

"Here," he said, helping Sherlock with a glass of water and two more decongestant tablets, rubbing his partner's back as Sherlock swallowed. "There, good," John murmured. "Let's give that a bit of time to start working. No, don't lie down, stay sitting up. It'll be easier."

Sherlock didn't argue, which John found troubling, but at least he was listening. He soothed a palm up and down Sherlock's back, skin against skin, as his partner kept coughing, running through almost half a box of tissues before it began to abate. Sherlock leaned against him, the wheeze still audible in his lungs. John pressed a kiss against his temple, feeling the faint flutter of eyelashes against his cheek.

Sherlock made another small noise, shoulders shaking again; John hummed wordlessly.

"John, I need to sleep," Sherlock managed, the tension in his muscles underscoring the exhaustion in his voice.

"I'll remind you one day that you said that," John replied, putting a slight smile into his voice, trying to find some levity in the situation. He felt a small shift in the muscles of Sherlock's cheek against his own, a pale reflection of a smile gone before it had really formed.

"Here, I have some menthol rub. I know you hate the smell, but it'll help."

Sherlock nodded, tipping his head back, shuddering slightly with another bout of coughing. John helped him out of his t-shirt, rubbing his partner's bare back slowly, massaging the gel into his skin. He lay Sherlock back on a small pile of pillows and did his chest next, keeping a sharp ear on the sound of his partner's breathing. The back-and-forth motion gave him an excuse to check Sherlock's ribs without being too obvious about it – his partner probably knew, but offered no resistance.

The small sense of relief John let himself feel when Sherlock's eyes dropped closed was short-lived; his partner doubled forward again, wracked by another coughing fit. John rubbed his back, murmuring meaningless reassurances, until Sherlock slumped on the pillows again, pale and wrung out.

John smoothed another dab of the rub on Sherlock's chest, using his free hand to run through dishevelled curls, hoping the light coughs wouldn't deepen again. Sherlock relaxed slowly, eyes falling closed again, face turned slightly toward John. There was a faint crease around his eyes even as he drifted to sleep, accompanied a sharp wheeze in his breathing. It was louder than before and John tried to ignore the weight of unease settling in his stomach as he checked Sherlock's temperature again.

When he was certain his partner was asleep again, he shut the light off and shuffled down to lie on his side, still stroking Sherlock's chest gently. John closed his eyes, hoping for sleep, but it eluded him, stolen by the rasping, laboured sound of his partner's breathing.

* * *

It was obvious with a glance that John hadn't slept; he looked as bad or worse than Sherlock felt. The doctor greeted him with a tired smile that came nowhere near his eyes; an attempt to speak was cut off by a coughing fit and Sherlock moaned, the muscles around his ribs protesting the abuse.

It was over much sooner than the previous ones but left him feeling exhausted, as though he'd been awake all night as well. Sherlock rubbed his eyes, muscles aching with the motion. He was tempted to roll onto his side and go back to sleep, but the rattle he could feel in his lungs told him he wouldn't succeed.

"Let's have a bath," John suggested. "The steam will help."

Sherlock nodded, listening to the sounds of John shaving while water filled the porcelain tub. He padded wearily to the bathroom when John called him, and sat on the toilet, letting his partner shave him carefully.

It helped him feel a bit more human, but not much.

The bath wasn't as roomy as theirs, but they made do, and the hot water helped his tired muscles while the steam cleared his lungs. When they were done and dressed – John in jeans and a jumper, Sherlock in a fresh pair of pyjamas – there was a faint knock on the door.

His mother gave them a sympathetic, knowing smile when she entered. There was a quick, critical assessment to her gaze, one Sherlock was long used to, but that made him feel both old and like a very young child.

"Oh my boy," she sighed, leaning down to press a kiss against his forehead, lips warm where they met his skin. "I was hoping a good night's sleep might have helped."

"It might have," Sherlock agreed. "If I'd had one."

"You should rest then."

"What was the plan otherwise?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, unsurprised that his mother neither backed down nor looked embarrassed.

"That you rest regardless," she said. "I'm taking John to town for breakfast."

"He shouldn't be alone," John said – immediately and predictably.

"He won't be," Sibyl replied, as though Sherlock were a child, unable to have an opinion about his own welfare. "William will stay with him."

"Mum," Sherlock sighed.

"John will see to whatever medications you need, but you clearly need some sleep. Your father has plenty of work to keep him occupied, all of which can be done from here."

Unable to stop himself, Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, ignoring the mild ache it caused, and slouched down on the sofa. Sibyl's fingertips brushed his cheek, a smile touching her features.

"Is it so terrible I want to spend time with my son-in-law?" she asked.

"We're not married," Sherlock muttered.

"Nevertheless." And there it was. No room for argument. Sherlock sighed, cast a glance at John, who looked almost relieved at the prospect. He wanted to protest – he was confined here while John went out. Sherlock was ill; he needed a doctor. What would he do if the fever came back or the coughing wouldn't abate?

"We'll be no more than ten minutes away," Sibyl assured him, reading the momentary flare of panic he couldn't quite hide. "Contrary to what you might think, your father _is_ actually capable of caring for you. Would you deny me something I enjoy?"

"What about something I enjoy?" Sherlock muttered, aware he sounded petulant, not entirely willing to concede.

"Right now, I think there's little you'd enjoy more than rest. An hour, maybe two, Sherlock. You're likely to sleep through it all anyway."

"Oh all _right_," Sherlock muttered, slumping down even further, glowering at the knowing smile that played on his mother's lips.

"Thank you," she said, kissing him lightly on the crown on his head. "John, meet me in the drive in ten minutes. William will be here shortly. Sherlock, please behave for your father. For once."

* * *

"You really don't have to do this."

"I don't feel obliged, John," Sibyl said with a kind smile. "It's something I want to do. Whether or not you ever have it formalized, you _are_ a member of my family. I'm glad to know you – and not just as my son's partner."

John gave her a smile in return; it felt weak, tempered by the fatigue that clung to his muscles. Three hours hadn't been nearly enough sleep, especially as he'd spent the rest of the night on-call.

In a way, it was a relief to have a break, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt at the realization.

"My sons are both very demanding men," Sibyl continued, arching an eyebrow, and John got the impression she somehow _knew_ about the guilt, even if he'd tried to hide it, "and Sherlock was always the baby of the family. He's never completely outgrown the sense that he deserves everything."

"I'm not sure he'd agree," John mused, half to himself.

"Oh, he'd agree he deserves everything," Sibyl replied, a knowing glint in her eye. "But not because he was the youngest. John, you've been at his beck and call both professional and personally since he's been ill. You deserve a reprieve – not just to get away physically, but emotionally, too. William will call if there are any problems. From now until the time we get home, leave Sherlock where he is and just enjoy yourself."

His smile was more genuine this time, but John felt a little abashed – he was a grown man, for god's sake. He shouldn't need someone else's permission to relax and enjoy himself.

"Sometimes we all need permission," Sibyl said, and John rolled his eyes, lips twitching again.

They found a little place in the village for breakfast, reminiscent of a Victorian tea house but with a more extensive menu, much to John's relief. A full meal and a cup of tea made him feel more human, and the distant company of the other patrons helped ease the narrow focus he'd been feeling lately. Sibyl kept the conversation deftly away from Sherlock, enquiring about John's family and work, reminiscing about her favourite places in London.

"You should come visit," John said. "You and William."

"Soon," Sibyl agreed. "I've convinced William to spend a week in southern France, and Angela's happily agreed to let us take the children. I'm sure I can encourage my husband to spend a few days in London on either end. He enjoys the city more than I do."

"Why don't you like it?" John enquired.

"It's not that I dislike it," Sibyl replied. "Just that the men in my family like it more. I appreciate it for what it is, but don't crave the busyness on a regular basis. It's quieter here. Slower. As much as I'm sure he'd protest, those things are good for William, too."

John nodded, remembering Sherlock's musings on retirement the day before. Now that he thought about it again, it was hard to picture his partner retiring. What would he do? He couldn't play the violin or shag John for twelve hours a day, and his work kept him busy enough that he had few other hobbies.

What would John himself do, for that matter?

"Let's take a walk, shall we?" Sibyl suggested, shaking him from his reverie. "It's a beautiful day, and we could both use the fresh air."

* * *

He could smell freshly baked bread.

For a moment, Sherlock considered that he was having a stroke – that _was_ one of the symptoms, and he was hardly sleeping in a kitchen – before the smell resolved itself into something more familiar and logical: scones. Freshly baked, yes, which meant the kitchen staff had just sent them up. The faint sounds of rustling paper and the clink of porcelain on porcelain indicated he wasn't alone. His father was in the sitting room, working and having tea.

Reluctantly, Sherlock opened his eyes, focussing slowly on the handmade card John had brought with them. Olivia had made it for him while he'd been in the hospital. Sherlock had eventually thought to ask what kind of seven year old girl preferred dinosaurs to princesses; John had rolled his eyes and presented Sherlock's entire family as evidence. The memory made him smile now, but the expression vanished as a spasm clutched his lungs, making him double forward. It was shorter lived than the bouts that morning, but his ribs still ached, protesting the continued abuse.

With a sigh, Sherlock eased himself from the bed, brushed his teeth in the small ensuite, and padded into the sitting room. His father extended a cup of tea on a saucer to him without comment; Sherlock took only the cup, knowing it would irritate William. He got a raised eyebrow for his insubordination but only shrugged, slipping out the French doors onto the stone-paved terrace outside.

William joined him a moment later, tucking a blanket around Sherlock's shoulders and another over his legs. Sherlock gave him a long-suffering look, which his father ignored altogether. He settled in the chair next to his son, tea in hand.

"It's rather Victorian, isn't it?" Sherlock mused.

"What is?" William asked.

"This," Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Falling ill, being sent to the country to recover. Fresh air, lifting the spirit, et cetera."

"Oh, I don't know," his father replied. "Back then, you probably would have died."

"Yes, thank you for that," Sherlock said, hiding a slight smile against the rim of his cup as he took a sip. His father gave him a neutral look in return, but Sherlock didn't miss the light of laughter in his eyes.

"And you weren't sent so much as you chose to come. If you didn't want to be here, Sherlock, you wouldn't be. There's nothing wrong with your flat in the city."

Sherlock nodded vaguely, closing his eyes. That was true, yet he didn't miss it. In some indefinable way, for some incomprehensible reason, he'd been homesick for here while in London. Certainly not, he told himself, because he required his parents' presence when he was ill. He was forty and well passed that sort of thing. But the air here was better, and it was more peaceful. Calm and quiet.

Normally he'd have found that hateful – right now, he appreciated it immensely.

"I assume your presence and John's absence means they aren't back yet," he commented.

"Mm," his father replied. Sherlock cracked an eye open to look at him. "Your mother called, said they were taking a walk." William paused, taking a sip of his tea, looking contemplative. "You're a very lucky man, you know."

Sherlock snorted softly. "So are you."

"Oh, believe me, I have no illusions about that," his father replied. "I think I'll live the rest of my life not quite understanding how remarkable your mother is – and not for lack of trying." William paused, sipping his tea. "John's a good man."

_I'm not a good man._ The words came back to him unbidden, making Sherlock feel a pang of unease. If William noticed his momentary discomfort, it didn't show.

"He is indeed," Sherlock agreed. "But far too fond of insisting that I rest."

"He's not the only one," William replied. "You're too much like your mother."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but made no comment; William gave him a long, knowing look.

"More tea?" his father asked.

Sherlock hummed, tilting his head back against the chair, relishing the cool breeze across his face.

"And biscuits," he replied.

* * *

John's return was a palpable relief. William's company wasn't demanding or tiring, but Sherlock couldn't remember having spent that much time with his father in years. If ever. It irritated him that he felt a bit like a child, uncertain how to act. Conversations had never been their strong suit – particularly since his father seemed disinclined toward them in general.

In the end it hadn't mattered; Sherlock had dozed off in the chair, and was now regretting it, even as John leaned down to press a warm kiss on his forehead. His muscles, already aching, felt stiff and resistant, and his neck cracked when he tipped his head from side-to-side.

John looked better, though – a smile on his lips at Sherlock's obvious discomfort, the light returned to his brown eyes.

"Thanks," he said to William, unfeigned sincerity in his voice.

"Of course," William replied, gathering his work and leaving them in silence.

"You survived," John commented, helping Sherlock from the chair, rubbing his back gently.

"Barely," Sherlock muttered. "You wouldn't have let me fall asleep in the chair. I feel like a rusty hinge."

"Oh yes I would have," John countered, his smile growing.

"I'm surrounded on all fronts," Sherlock groused, succeeding only in making John grin again.

"Come on inside, I'll give you a massage."

That made it all worth it; there were few luxuries in life that compared to John's massages. He had no formal training, but his medical expertise – not to mention nearly a decade of knowing Sherlock's body – made John as skilled as any professional Sherlock had ever hired.

He undressed slowly, shuffling under the blankets and propping himself up on a pillow. Lying on his chest wouldn't work for long, but it was enough time for John to loosen his tired muscles, making him feel warm and relaxed. At a murmured command, Sherlock rolled over, sitting up to cough, then lay against the pile of pillows. John rubbed his chest, soothing strokes down his arms, digging thumbs into palms. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling drowsy and content. Not enough to sleep, but enough to feel properly relaxed for the first time in over a week.

"Want me to do your legs?"

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, nodding. He normally disliked it, but the ache was still clinging to those muscles while the rest of his body felt sated. John worked downward slowly until he could dig his knuckles into the arches of Sherlock's feet and tug lightly on his toes. Sherlock hummed again, wondering vaguely when the last time he'd felt this human had been.

"Good?" John whispered, leaning over to brush a kiss against his lips.

"Perfect," Sherlock murmured, reaching up to card a hand through John's hair without looking.

"Glad to hear it," John replied, and Sherlock could feel the smile stretching across his partner's lips. "I've got to shower; you just rest."

He was too satisfied to argue, unbothered by the loss of warmth as John pulled away. Receding footsteps took his partner into the bathroom; Sherlock floated blissfully, listening to the steady stream of water hitting porcelain, to the faint, soft sounds of clothing puddling on hard tile.

It was several minutes before Sherlock realized that it had been a longer shower than normal for John. He cracked his eyes open, glancing toward the bathroom, lips pulling down into a slight frown. John wasn't prone to long showers, especially when he was on his own – too much military training.

_Ah,_ Sherlock realized and sat up, swallowing a faint groan as his body protested the movement. He padded into the bathroom and slid the frosted glass door aside, raising an eyebrow at John's surprise.

Before his partner could protest, Sherlock stepped in with him, curling long fingers over John's wrists, undeterred by the sudden resistance of muscles.

"Let me," Sherlock murmured.

"You can't–" John managed, voice thicker than normal.

"You can," Sherlock replied, leaning down to brush their lips together, a small moan bouncing in the space between them.

"Sherlock–"

"Shh, John, let me."

John relented, pulling his hands away from himself reluctantly, tipping his head back when Sherlock's roaming fingers circled his nipples, pinching and twisting. The doctor groaned, the sound reverberating off the tiled walls, and Sherlock felt his own body stirring but ignored it. He really couldn't, not with his lungs, but there was nothing wrong with John.

He kissed his partner again, tongue flickering over John's bottom lip until the doctor parted his lips. Sherlock kept the touch light, teasing the tip of John's tongue with his own, tasting the desire.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, letting a hand trail down to wrap around John's erection, stroking with too light a grip. His partner shuddered, fingers digging into Sherlock's upper arms, muscles twitching with the urge to thrust. Sherlock smoothed his free hand over John's hip to the small of his back and tightened his grip. John took the unspoken invitation, thrusting into his fist as Sherlock stroked harder.

"Come on, John," he murmured, nuzzling his partner's ear. John dropped his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, breath coming in hot pants against Sherlock's skin. "Come on."

"Sherlock oh god–" John gasped as he came, body shuddering. Sherlock steadied him with his left hand, easing off when it became too much. John leaned against him, still breathing hard, expression dazed when he managed to look up.

"Better?" Sherlock murmured.

"God yes," John replied, closing his eyes when Sherlock bent to kiss him.

He cleaned his partner slowly with a flannel, smiling as John's fingers laced into his hair, before they climbed out and he patted the doctor dry.

"You need to sleep," Sherlock commented. John's lips stretched into a tired but contented smile.

"Have we switched places?" he asked, closing his eyes when Sherlock towelled his hair vigorously.

"Only for the time being."

"I can live with that," John said, leaning up for another kiss.

They shuffled into pyjamas, crawling under the covers. John settled on his side, an arm around Sherlock's waist, their legs hooked together. Sherlock would have preferred to wrap around John, but lying on his side would only send him into a coughing fit. He contented himself instead with stroking his fingers through John's damp hair.

"What about you?" John murmured, eyes drifting shut, voice thick but with sleep this time.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock promised, kissing his partner lightly. "Just rest."


	3. Chapter 3

The distant knock on the suite door and the soft footsteps in the sitting room were his mother's. Sherlock murmured 'come in' at the quieter knock on the bedroom door, carding his fingers through John's hair to offset the noise. He had been half dozing, secured by John's sleeping warmth, but the subtle smell of tea perked up his senses.

"Occupied, I see," his mother commented, keeping her tone low. Sherlock smiled slightly, arching an eyebrow as he beckoned her inside. She stooped to press a kiss against his forehead, grey eyes evaluating him carefully.

"Your father's company did you some good."

Sherlock smirked, but couldn't deny that he did feel better than he had that morning, and certainly better than the day before. It probably wouldn't last, but John had assured him he would improve in small increments.

"Yours certainly did for John," he replied. Sibyl's eyes skimmed John's sleeping figure, and Sherlock glanced down as well, lips twitching at the sight of his partner's nose pressed into his hip, light hair dishevelled from Sherlock's combing fingers.

"I'm glad he's resting. I'll come back later."

"No, stay," Sherlock murmured. Wakefulness having crept back into his mind, leaving him wanting company other John's for the first time since he'd become ill.

"I don't want to wake him."

"It's all right," Sherlock assured her softly. John grimaced slightly when the arm across Sherlock's thighs was moved gently, but he rolled onto his back, face turned away, half buried in the pillows. Sherlock slid carefully from the bed – eight years of balancing the demands of his work and sleeping with John had made him an expert at extricating himself without waking his partner.

They settled in the sitting room, the bedroom door shut behind them to block out the noise. Sherlock accepted a cup of tea gratefully, the steam wafting over his skin, dislodging a cough in his lungs. Sibyl gave him a careful look but it passed quickly, leaving only an aching twinge in his shoulders.

"Thank you for taking him out," Sherlock said.

"Of course," his mother replied. "I'm glad to see you survived your time with your father." She smiled slightly at Sherlock's faint scoff. "He does love you, you know."

"You know him better than I," Sherlock commented.

"And believe me, you'd know if he didn't," Sibyl replied lightly. "He was far more worried about you than he let on – even yesterday."

Sherlock sighed lightly, relaxing into the sofa cushions.

"I'm fine. Or at least I will be."

"If by that you mean you're a stubborn fool who should have learned by now how to pace himself, then yes. No, I don't blame you, Sherlock," she added at Sherlock's glower. "It's hardly your fault you fell ill, but you need to take your health more seriously."

"So John tells me," Sherlock muttered. _So I've told myself._ His mother raised an eyebrow, and he gave a slight shake of his head.

"You needn't worry, Mum."

"I'm your mother. It's my place to worry."

"And Father's, apparently."

"And your brother's, and John's."

"John's a doctor. This is far less worrisome for him. He understands the details."

His mother raised her eyebrows, subjecting him to a pointed look that pinned him to his seat.

"If that's what you think, then you either _are_ a fool or the pneumonia and the medications have muddled your mind. He's been taking excellent care of you, Sherlock, and he's been very calm about it, but he was beside himself with panic when you were in hospital."

"He was not," Sherlock countered, scowling slightly under her penetrating gaze.

"You weren't exactly conscious when he arrived. I've never had any doubts about his love for you, but if I'd had, that would have allayed them. 'Frantic' would be a good description. He's done an admirable job hiding it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest then paused, the words dying on his tongue. Sibyl was right, he didn't remember John's arrival – any more than he remembered his own admittance to the hospital – but he had a dim recollection of John's face the first time he'd properly regained consciousness. Everything else was hazy, but John hadn't bothered to hide his relief, and now that Sherlock could look back on it, it was no difficult task to identify the fear in his partner's brown eyes.

Sherlock tipped his head back, ignoring the discomfort that flared in his lungs, and closed his eyes.

He should have seen it, of course.

Warm fingers around his wrist made him look up again, and Sibyl gave him a knowing, supportive smile.

"You were ill," she said. "You _are_ ill. No one is blaming you, Sherlock – not for any of it. I just want you to be aware of it. No berating yourself for having not noticed. Being admitted to the A&E certainly gives you the right not to. He loves you and is worried about you."

"I love him, too."

"I know," Sibyl replied with a smile.

"And I promise you, I will do everything I can to avoid having _this_ happen again."

"Good," she said firmly. "You – you _and_ Mycroft both – give me enough to worry about as it is."

"We're both more than capable of managing our affairs," Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow.

"I've never had any doubts about that – but as I said, I'm your mother." She paused, sipping her tea, then gave a her head a small shake. "Enough of this for now. No need to hamper your recovery with too much serious business. I haven't told you yet about our plans for the new hives."

* * *

John padded into the sitting room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Sherlock was on the couch, sprawled out and propped on several cushions but awake and reading. The smile he gave John was genuine if tired, and the doctor was glad to see some of the light returned to his partner's grey eyes.

"Sleep well?" Sherlock asked as John carded his fingers through dark curls.

"Mm, except for the part where my partner abandoned me."

"My mother came for tea."

"That's all right then," John replied. "Budge up." He settled next to Sherlock, curling into the warmth of his partner's lanky body. Sherlock had always been thin but the illness had left him bony, making it more difficult to get comfortable. He got a mock scowl as he positioned himself between Sherlock and the back of the sofa, resting his chin against his partner's shoulder. John pressed his lips into the warm skin of Sherlock's neck and closed his eyes.

"What if we just stayed here forever?" he murmured, smiling slightly when he heard Sherlock sigh.

"We would get hungry, smelly, and uncomfortable."

"You don't have a romantic bone in your body," John complained. The doctor adjusted himself again, getting more comfortable; Sherlock turned his face to lock their eyes, their noses almost touching.

"I can think of several occasions that disprove your theory," he said.

"Can you?" John asked, rubbing Sherlock's stomach absently through the fabric of his t-shirt. "Funny, I can't think of a single one."

"Hardly my fault you can't put your mind to the task," Sherlock sniffed, making a show of returning to his book.

"Maybe you should remind me. I haven't got your amazing intellect after all." Grey eyes narrowed at him, the expression offset by the upward curl of Sherlock's lips.

"I had the flat decorated in flowers _and_ your favourite Thai food waiting for you after work when I was called to Germany unexpectedly."

"Okay, that's one," John conceded.

"I bought us a new bed."

"That was seven years ago," John replied sternly. "Germany was four years ago. You're going to need some more recent examples."

"I believe for your last birthday I organized a private and very romantic dinner – with dancing – at our favourite French restaurant."

"Mm, you did do that."

"And I arranged that weekend at the coast for you, your mum, and Harry."

"That wasn't exactly romantic," John pointed out.

"It was romantic of me to do it. I've also arranged for your favourite meal for dinner tonight, here, just the two of us."

"What?" John asked, pulling back just enough to get a better view of his partner's face. "You did not."

"Of course I did, why shouldn't I have?" Sherlock replied. "You've done nothing but care for me since I've been ill. I'd like to repay the favour."

"I didn't do it as a favour," John said, but kissed Sherlock before his partner could protest. "But the cook here is making shepard's pie? Really?"

"Yes. And I guarantee it will be the best you've had – nothing but prime cuts of lamb and the freshest vegetables. It has the added bonus of being heavy and high in calories, so you'll be pleased when I eat some."

"Very pleased," John agreed. Sherlock drew back slightly, startled at John's agreement; the doctor kissed away the hesitant expression before running a thumb along Sherlock's bottom lip. "Relax, I'd find you attractive no matter what. I just don't want to worry about hurting you."

"You're very fond of bruising me," Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Only when it's enjoyable for you," John said, pushing himself to sitting. "I need to change and wash up. Read your book. I won't be long."

He was only five minutes, in fact, but by the time he was done and had re-emerged into the sitting room, Sherlock had dozed off, book open on his chest. John moved it, wanting no extra weight on weakened lungs, and covered his partner carefully. A sigh gusted from Sherlock's lips across John's hand, followed by a bout of coughing that wasn't deep enough to wake him.

John waited until it had passed, then bent down to listen for any signs of wheezing. There was a faint rattle in Sherlock's breathing but nothing like the day before. He smiled slightly, brushing a stray lock from his partner's forehead, and settled at the desk to write some long overdue emails.

* * *

The meal was rich, heavy, and – as promised – the best shepard's pie John had ever had. It was accompanied by his favourite beer, and Sherlock ate a whole serving, even if it took John the same amount of time to eat two.

When they'd had their fill – finishing with the lightest chocolate mousse John had ever eaten – Sherlock suggested they sit outside. John wrapped his partner snugly in a blanket and tucked another one around both of them. They pressed together, clasping hands beneath the warm fabric. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, smiling slightly when he felt his partner's cheek pressed into his hair.

The sun faded over the treetops, a thin line of vanishing light swallowed by inky darkness. The stars began to appear, a faint twinkle here and there at first, but it wasn't long before they were peppered across the sky, far brighter than they ever were in London. John found the constellations he knew; they stood out more starkly here than they had in Afghanistan, with fewer visible stars around them to obscure or confuse their outlines. He could just make out a thin band of light that was the Milky Way, but during the Afghani winters, it had been a nearly solid band stretching almost horizon to horizon.

The silence was punctuated by insects and the occasional and very faint call of a distant owl. There had been some bats at dusk, and he suspected they were still out there but couldn't see them. He felt content to sit here with the sounds of the country surrounding them, without any need to speak. It felt like it had been ages since he'd been able to simply enjoy his partner's presence, the familiar comfort of Sherlock next to him without any demands or obligations.

He could feel Sherlock's breath against his head, slowing and deepening, as the fingers around his loosened slightly. John smiled, squeezing his partner's hand, unsurprised when Sherlock didn't respond. He could hear a faint wheeze in Sherlock's lungs, but was satisfied that yesterday's severity was past and his partner was well and truly on the mend.

Even if he did have a tendency to fall asleep unexpectedly.

John sat and watched the sky for awhile longer before rousing his partner, leading a sleepy Sherlock back inside and tucking them into bed, feeling contented and safe for the first time in well over a week. He wrapped himself around Sherlock, waiting for the younger man to drift off again, then surrendered to sleep.

* * *

To John's sleepy surprise, Sherlock was awake before him, watching him as he drifted back to consciousness, eyes bright with a particular light John knew very well. Long fingers skimmed and teased across his stomach where his t-shirt had been pushed up, drawing goose bumps in their wake. There was a familiar tightness in his groin and a stretching restriction to his pyjama pants.

"Taking advantage of me?" John murmured as Sherlock leaned down to kiss him.

"Ugh," his partner said, pulling away, and John arched an eyebrow.

"'Ugh'?" he echoed. "Not very seductive, Sherlock."

"Go brush your teeth," his partner ordered, and John grinned.

"I'll shave while I'm at it," he replied, tossing the blankets aside.

"Don't," Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows; Sherlock looked petulant.

"Fine, fine," he agreed, chuckling as he leaned down for another kiss, which Sherlock dodged.

"Teeth first," his partner insisted. John did as bidden, returning to slip back in beside Sherlock, wrapping one hand around a thin hip and brushing his lips over his partner's.

"You sure about this?" John murmured, warm breath ghosting against his skin.

"I can't smoke," Sherlock replied. "I should be able to do _something_ enjoyable."

"Good to know where I stand," John said, kissing Sherlock before he could retort. He gave a soft moan when long fingers dipped beneath the elastic of his waistband, freeing his morning erection before short nails were dragged along it. He pressed his hips towards Sherlock's hand, moaning again at the sensation.

"What do you want?" John murmured, tracing the outline of an ear with his lips.

"You," Sherlock replied, turning his head to find John in a kiss, tongue flickering teasingly over John's. "Inside of me."

The thought left John a bit breathless as he rolled Sherlock onto his back against the pile of pillows he'd slept on. Faint groans were lost into another kiss as John pressed them together, thrusting gently, feeling Sherlock growing hard against him. He kept himself braced on his forearms as Sherlock wound his legs around John's, pushing upward. If Sherlock stayed propped up with no weight on his chest, they might just manage this.

Sherlock's hands roamed his back, pushing his t-shirt up; John hunched his shoulders and sat up enough to work it off. He manoeuvred Sherlock's off as well, running his hands and eyes over his partner's exposed torso, letting his desire show in his expression. Sherlock had clearly been worried the night before about not being attractive; John wanted him to see how unfounded that was.

He leaned down for another slow kiss, slipping his hand into Sherlock's pyjama pants to tease and stroke. Sherlock groaned, arching his head back, breathing deeply. John smiled, kissing his partner's throat, dragging his teeth lightly across pale skin. He was tempted to bruise Sherlock but resisted – in part because his partner was sick, in part because they were at his parents'.

"Lube," John requested, only half surprised when Sherlock's hand fumbled under the pillows and came out with the tube. "Lift," he ordered, pushing Sherlock's pyjamas pants down for his partner to kick off. He shed his quickly, leaning down for another kiss, pressing their bodies together. John couldn't stop the groan that slipped from his lips; after nearly two weeks, the sensation was almost overwhelming.

"John," Sherlock moaned, nuzzling the side of his nose. John hummed, snapping the cap on the lube, hearing the faint intake of breath at the sound. He coated his hands, caught in another kiss, Sherlock's moan lost in his mouth when he slipped a finger down then inward.

"God yes," Sherlock managed, fingers digging into John's back. The doctor smiled and crooked his fingertip, pressing it lightly against his partner's prostate. Sherlock gasped, arching upward, the sound catching in his chest, just before he began to cough.

"Up," John ordered, pulling his hand away immediately, his free one wrapping around Sherlock's shoulders, drawing him up. "Sit up."

Sherlock doubled forward and John pressed a tissue into his hands, everything else forgotten as his partner's thin frame was wracked in his arms.

"Breathe," John said as another gasp caught, and Sherlock gagged, a hand clutching desperately at John's arm. "Deep inhales, cough if you have to, but breathe." Sherlock nodded quickly, dissolving into another spasm as John rubbed his back, murmuring meaningless reassurances.

It was over relatively quickly but left Sherlock slumped against him, shoulders heaving, looking wrung out. John gave a rueful smile, pressing his lips into his partner's temple.

"We'll wait a bit before we try that again," he commented. Sherlock scowled and groaned lightly, slumping back onto his pile of pillows. The pinched expression told John that his partner found no humour in the situation; John didn't blame him, but took the whole thing as a good sign nonetheless. Two days ago, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to manage that much – and probably wouldn't have wanted to, for all that he'd talked about it.

He rubbed Sherlock's chest until the younger man's breathing had returned to normal – or what passed as normal for him right now – then helped him sit up.

"Bath?" John suggested. The steam did help Sherlock's lungs, but he got another scowl and a shake of the head in response to his question.

"I'm sick of that!" Sherlock snapped. "I'm sick of _this_, John! I'm not some – some _invalid_ to be confined to his bed and pandered to!"

"There are plenty of times you've enjoyed being confined to bed and insisted on having me cater to your every whim," John pointed out.

"Yes and they aren't ruined by a sudden coughing fit!" Sherlock shot him a glare that John let slide right by – he was frustrated, but not really with John. "I don't _want_ to stay here and sleep all bloody day! I'm tired of it – tired of this room, of this dull routine, of being tired. I'm _trapped_, John!"

"We can go somewhere," John said.

"Another walk?" Sherlock snapped. "Then perhaps I can spend this afternoon and tonight the same way I spent them after the last one?"

"Not a walk," John said, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "We can go to town, find somewhere to sit and have some breakfast. Or have the kitchen staff make us something and I'll drive us out to the lake. The fresh air might do you some good."

Sherlock closed his eyes, but John didn't sense any defeat, and his partner nodded.

"I'll go talk to them," John said, kissing Sherlock quickly. "Stay here and rest. I'll be back before you know it."

"I doubt that," Sherlock replied, cracking an eye open, but there was a slight smile on his lips and a wry touch to his tone that told John he wasn't entirely sulking. John grinned, kissed him again, and went to rinse off and dress.

* * *

They found a sheltered spot that let gave them a wide view of the lake but shielded them from the wind that rustled in the trees and chopped up the small expanse of blue-grey water. John wrapped a blanket around Sherlock's shoulders and tucked a second around his legs, earning an aggrieved sigh that he soothed away with a kiss on the forehead. Sherlock's frustration had waned but hadn't vanished.

John refrained from saying he took it all as a good sign. Sherlock was getting bored, which meant he was on the mend. He knew his partner well enough to know it would be a rocky road for several days, until the younger man had recovered enough to return to work. He probably needed another week, and John hoped he could keep them out here for most of that time; if they went back to London, Sherlock would be crawling out of his skin within hours.

"Better?" John asked, handing his partner a thermos cup of coffee. Sherlock hunched his shoulders, sipping the hot drink to delay his reply.

"Yes," he said, reluctantly. John smiled, parcelling out the food. A sense of relief settled over him as Sherlock began to relax and even enjoy himself as they ate. When they'd finished, John cleared the debris back into the small cooler and bundled Sherlock to him. His partner made himself comfortable – using a bit more elbow than John thought necessary – head resting on John's shoulder.

They watched the wind-born waves in silence, the breeze making the trees creak and whisper around them. On the ground, surrounded by the woods on three sides, it was warm enough to be pleasant. Despite that, they were the only ones there, and John appreciated the solitude. It was rare that they were ever truly alone when they weren't in their flat. Right now, he would happily believe they were the only two people in the county.

When he began to feel stiff, he lay down, drawing Sherlock with him so that his partner was half sprawled on his chest. John ran a finger down the sharp line of Sherlock's jaw and kissed him lightly.

"John," Sherlock said, half a protest, half a warning.

"Just this," John promised. Sherlock hesitated a moment then gave in, letting himself be pulled into another kiss, this one slow and deep. He tasted of coffee and scones, and smelled of hair product and fresh air.

John ran his fingers up Sherlock's spine, feeling the shudder even through the layers and the blanket, and eased off, pressing his palm into the small of Sherlock's back. It felt good to lie here, unhurried and with no expectations, lips moving against each other.

He let time fade away, along with everything else, until all he was aware of was Sherlock's warmth and taste. Eyelashes fluttered against John's cheek as Sherlock rested their foreheads together.

"I don't want to sleep," he muttered, and John smiled.

"You don't have to," John replied, tracing the outline of an ear, letting dark curls run through his fingers. Sherlock pulled away to settle against John, turned enough so he wasn't lying entirely on his side. His fingers were tracing small circles on John's stomach again, but pensively this time.

The sensation and the sound of the wind in the trees lulled John into a doze, half aware of the world around him, but its edges faded into blurred lines. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so content.

"Fifty-four," Sherlock murmured, and John blinked, the words and the sense that he'd missed part of a conversation shaking him awake.

"What?" he asked.

"I'll retire at fifty-four."

John raised his head slightly, but Sherlock's gaze was directed toward the lake.

"Why fifty-four?"

"I was fourteen when I began. That makes forty years. It seems long enough."

A fond smile creased John's lips.

"And what will you do then?" Sherlock's shrug dug a bony shoulder briefly into his ribs.

"I don't have to retire completely, and there's plenty of the world I've seen only on business or not at all."

"So we'll be two rich old men travelling the globe? I like the sound of that."

"Good," Sherlock murmured.

"And until then?"

Sherlock propped himself on his forearm, meeting John's gaze.

"At the moment, I'm apparently at the mercy of my doctor, who's dictating when I can return to work."

"He ought to listen to you," John said with a grin. "If not, you should fire him."

"I _would_ fire him," Sherlock agreed, expression all mock seriousness, "only Gabriel is his boss, and seems to hold his opinion in very high regard. For reasons I cannot fathom."

John tugged lightly on Sherlock's hair, earning him a mild scowl.

"Possibly because this doctor took very good care of Gabriel after he was shot. And takes good care of his girls now."

"Or he tells me what to do and I actually have to listen to him."

"Or that," John agreed, tipping Sherlock's chin up with two fingers and kissing him. "But I think you secretly appreciate him for it."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed. "Maybe. But don't tell him I said so. He'd never let up otherwise."

John grinned, running his fingers through dark curls.

"Your secret is safe with me," he promised.

"I knew there was a reason I loved you," Sherlock said. John chuckled, kissing his partner lightly, brushing away a strand of dark hair stirred by the breeze.

"I love you, too," he replied.


End file.
